Ladyboy in Training
by sebastienne
Summary: Cads. Eyeliner. Enjoy . . .
1. The Hogwarts Letter

I don't any of these fantastic characters (well, just imagine what I'd be like if I had my very own Tom Riddle . . . in a cage . . . anyway, back to reality)

All respect and adoration to JKR for creating the fantastic, uber-renty Tom Riddle.

Please R&R!

*~*

_Tom Riddle stood before the small mirror on the wall in his dormitory. He had waited until all his housemates had gone to breakfast, pleading a stomach-ache._

_This was not true, but he was far too excited to eat._

_He teased the comb one last time through his, as always, perfectly styled hair, before reaching into his wand pocket._

_Instead of his wand, however, he pulled out . . . a black eyeliner pencil._

*~*

Tom had been so excited when he got the Hogwarts letter. He always knew he was of a different class to the plebs with whom he was forced to live in the orphanage. He wanted, more than anything, to escape to boarding school. However, it was an impossible dream . . . the 'socialist' principles of the social services meant that he was going to the local comp with every other kid who had never read a book in their life.

He immersed himself in stories of boarding schools and summer camps and children outwitting adults to solve mysteries. He decided that, altough he could not separate himself from them physically, he would have to do so intellectually. He read and read, still feeling that there was something missing, that his mother would appear, that she was not dead, that her love would somehow save him . . .

One hot summer's day, he was sitting in the cramped dormitory he shared with seven other boys. The book open on his lap was _The Picture of Dorian Gray_, but he was not really reading it. He was gazing out of the open window, watching the football game which was swiftly degenerating into an anarchic free-for-all, when he saw the fight come slowly to a halt. One by one, each boy's gaze was drawn towards a most unlikely sight – and elegant barn owl was flying across the yard, carrying what seemed to be an envelope in its talons. Tom saw, with amazement, that it seemed to be heading right for him! He didn't know what to expect, so threw himself off his bed, Wilde's pages fluttering like the owl's wings as his book fell to the floor.

The bird seemed unfazed by this, as it simply dropped the envelope on his bed and flew out the way it had come in. Tom watched in amazement as the owl flew away, until it was no more than a dot on the horizon.

He recovered his composure as he heard the clamour of footsteps on the stairs – he jumped back onto his bed and stuffed the letter inside his pillowcase. He had just reached down to retrieve his book from the floor as his roommates and, in fact, most of the orphanage came flying in.

He had to wait until much later to read the letter. He hadn't even had time to read the envelope – it might not even belong to him! He laughed at himself – how could he even think it would be adressed to him? Things like that only happened in kids' books, never in the real world.

Still, he entertained childish hopes that this letter was a message from his mother, who hadn't been able to contact him because she was held captive in a Siberian prison, or an Icelandic fortress, and had, after ten long years, found to means to communicate with him, by a trained homing owl, or an owl which was in fact a remete controlled robot built by renegade engineers.

These fantasies, spiralling wilder and wilder, kept him sane throught the long wait for solitude. He was rarely, if ever alone is his dormitory.

When night had fallen. And he was quite sure every other inhabitant of his dorm was asleep, Tom sat up in bed, pulled the curtain over his head and took the letter out from inside his pillowcase.

The moon had just begun to wane, and there was quite enough light for him to read by. The envelope was addressed to him:

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_The Lumpiest Bed_

_The Smelliest Dormitory_

_Great Hangleton Orphanage_

_Great Hangleton_

Tom was shocked – how could anyone know his was the lumpiest bed? (it was, thought, he was sure of it.)__

A feeling of forboding suddenly rushed through Tom's body. Whatever was in tis envelope, he felt sure, would change his life irrevocably.__

He felt the heavy cream paper between his fingers and, with a sudden burst of courage, tore open the envelope.__

_Dear Mr Riddle,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at __Hogwarts__School__ of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July._

_Yours Sincerely_

_Proffesor S. K. Ungulent_

_Deputy Headmaster._

The letter made no sense to Tom. He read in through a few times more before he could reallt take in what it was saying. An escape! A ticket out of this hellhole! To an elitist public school, no less.

A school of Witchcraft and Wizardry . . . this surpassed Tom's wildest dreams of escape. Which is why he pinched himself, hard, three times before he returned the letter to his pillowcase and wriggled down under the blankets.


	2. The Sorting Hat

Nope, still don't own him. But if anybody wants to guest-star by writing me a sorting hat song . . .

*~*

_Breathing slowly to still his shaking hands, Tom placed his left index finger at the corner of his left eye. He pulled the skin gently away from his eye, leaving the skin beneath taut. He took the eyeliner pencil and drew a thick, dark line from his tear duct to the outside corner of his eye. He held it there for a moment, then released the skin and regarded his eye critically in the mirror. _

_He then pulled the skin under his right eye taut in the same way, and filled in with another dark line. He mirrored the thickness of the line under his other eye, and blinked twice before he continued._

_Then he closed his left eye, and drew a heavy, dark line which seemed to bleed directly into his thick eyelashes. He parallelled this on his right eye, before regarding himself in the mirror._

_With two quick motions from  the wrist, he drew small flicks leading up from the outer corners of his eyes._

_He paused for a moment, the smiled, obviously satisfied, and returned the eyeliner pencil to his wand pocket._

*~*

Tom Riddle stood, awestruck, in the doorway of the Great Hall. His first sight of this long-awaited, often-imagined haven surpassed all his expectations.

He looked up and saw rolling grey clouds and the occasional flash of lightning. However, no rain fell on the long wooden tables surrounded by impatient looking students. 

The man who had just introduced himself as Professor Ungulent ushered them into the hall and arranged them in anervous huddle by the stage. There was nothing in the middle of the stage except for an old hat on a stool.

It was a strange juxtaposition – all the fantastical magic of a rainless thunderstorm, a thousand candles levitation in mid-air, rows of students in robes and pointed hats . . . yet the focus of attention was a mouldy-looking old hat on a wooden stool. Tom was wondering what was about to happen – no doubt something spectacular would happen, to match the wonder of the thunderstorm overhead – when a wide gash in its brin opened, and it began to sing . . .

When it had finished, Tom was confused but somehow charmed by the idea. Immediatley he knew that Ravenclaw would be the house for him – finally, he would be amongst his intellectual equals!

He watched, enraptured, as child after child filed up to the stool and placed the hat upon their head. He noticed how sometimes the hat would make its decision and call out a house almost instantaneously, whereas with others it would take a long time, presumably deliberating He hoped that the hat would take one look inside his head and shout 'Ravenclaw'. Images flashed through his head, images of intellectually stimulating conversation, reading poetry, off-handly quoting Wildean witticisms, discussing literature, art, love . . . 

He was shaken out of his reverie when he heard Professor Ungulent calling out 'Riddle, Tom'. He stepped up to the platform, and slipped the hat onto his head. Immediately, he heard voices inside his head.

'Well read. You don't see children this literary-minded these days. But so much ambition! Such a thirst to prove yourself!'

The hat went silent for a very long time, as if it where arguing within itself.

Eventually, reluctantly, as if making a decision against its better judgement, the hat called out 'Slytherin!'

Tom was shocked (The reader, however, was undoubtedly not).

He waited for a moment, as if he imagined the hat would change its mind. But nothing happened, and he removed the hat and began the endless-seeming walk toward the Slytherin table. He slid onto the bench, finding it hard to be inconspicuous when the eyes and applause of every member of his house – yes, he had to think of it as _his house now – were focused on him._

However, behind the cheering of his Slytherin housemates, Tom saw a cold ojection to his presence. He felt as if he was the only one turning up to a party in fancy dress, or that they must somehow know that it had been less than two months since he had even discovered this world existed.

Tom looked along the table at the other first years who had been sorted into Slytherin.

A severe-looking girl with her dark hair scraped back into a tight bun had already begun conversing with a petite, heavily made-up redhead. A small, effeminate-looking boy was talking to what Tom could only assume must be his elder brother – they were identical in everything byut size.

Tom cast a dejected glance towards the Ravenclaw table. It seemed to him as if their table was filled with beautiful people, discussing politics and poetry. He dragged his eyes back to his own house, and saw only the deep-set eyes of the incongruously large first year who had just sat down opposite him. An incline of the large, bushy eyebrows and a slight grunt seemed to be the only greeting Tom was likely to get out of him.

It's funny how potent first impressions can be, and Tom felt that, while the Ravenclaw sense of humour would be a complex pun, probably based on an obscure cultural reference, the Slytherin sense of humour would be a particularly nasty, painful, insulting practical joke.

Tom still felt that, somehow, the sorting hat must have been wrong. But something told him there would be no appeal.


	3. The Herbology Lesson

Nope, he's STILL not mine. Prizes for the first person to work out Jenny Belette!

*~*

_Tearing his eyes from the image in the mirror, Tom turned abruptly round and, with a swish of his black robes, left the dormitory._

_As he descended the staircase to his common room, his posture was somehow . . . different. He held himself taller than usual, shoulders thrown back rather than hunched forwards. His face, normally blank and angled to the floor, was now held high, and a wicked smirk twisted the corner of his mouth._

_He slid his hands into his pockets as he entered the common room, where he saw a petite redhead – Jenny Belette– staring into the fire, her mascara smeared underneath her eyes. Tom had heard people comment that she was looking a lot thinner recently, and he couldn't help wondering if she had been skipping meals like this a lot._

_As Tom stepped towards her, she gasped and turned away from him, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow. Though she was doing her best to retain her composure, Tom thought he could see small sobs in the movement of her shoulders and back._

_He reached out to touch her shoulder – that was what you did, wasn't it? Comforted crying girls? – but she jerked it back and out of his reach._

_'Don't!' she warned, staring at him murderously. But, as she stared, she saw the slightly darker outline to his eyes, the flicks at their corners . . ._

_'You . . . make-up . . .' she stuttered, eyeing him with a mixture of disbelief and interest, her tears wiped away and forgotten._

_Tom didn't know what he had expected his first revelation to be like, but it was not this. She looked at him as if asking for an explanation, but Tom knew he had none to give her. Even if he had a clearly defined reason for doing what he had done, he doubted he would have shared it with Jenny Belette. He didn't really know her (he didn't really know anyone), and certainly did not know her well enough to trust her with knowledge of his own identity. Then again, not even Tom himself posessed this knowledge. You'd think that somewhere, in all the books he'd read, he'd have found it, but no._

_He floundered for a moment, with no idea what to say to the wide-eyed, tear-streaked girl in front of him. He found he had nothing to say to her, so he turned quickly and swept out of the common room._

*~*

To be fair, Tom had never mastered the art of social interaction. The subtle art of potion-making? Came to him as easily as cookery. Memorising complex charms and incantations? No problem. But knowing when to speak and when to stay silent, how to initiate a conversation, how to make meaningless small-talk that served no purpose other than to cover the lack of actual conversation . . . Tom found no books that dealt with this. But he was in no particular hurry – there were things that interested him more.

From the first time he sat down at the Slytherin table, Tom had felt isolated. To begin with, he blamed a mistake on the part of the sorting hat. He was a natural Ravenclaw! He simply couldn't understand his placement in Slytherin.

He began to understand his placement, however, after his first Herbology lesson . . .


End file.
